Chapter 12: The Mark of Blood
The forest was silent.
A thick mist curled between the trees like ghostly fingers. Snow crunched faintly under Tyris's boots as he stepped forward, eyes fixed on the tree just ahead.
He knew she was there.
"Maria," he called out calmly, but firmly. "Come out."
There was no movement.
Only the rustling of leaves, the gentle sway of branches above.
He stepped closer. "You can hide, but fear won't change what's coming. Come out now."
A soft gasp slipped from behind the tree. Then, slowly, a girl stepped out into the light. Her body trembled with every step, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Sweat gleamed on her neck despite the cold.
She looked at him—not with anger, nor defiance—but uncertainty.
Her feet moved one at a time, each step small, reluctant. Her eyes flicked toward the unconscious body of Roy on the ground, then quickly away again.
Tyris said nothing for a moment. He studied her, then turned his gaze to Roy. Kneeling beside him, he checked the man's gear and found it—a short-sword. Or more precisely, a heavy dagger. Its handle was carved from the thighbone of a wild bear, the blade itself made of cold-forged iron, jagged and cruel.
He turned the weapon in his hand, its surface catching the pale light.
"Fitting," he muttered. "A beast's bone for a beast's act."
Then he looked up at Maria, who had stopped halfway. Her feet were glued to the ground. Her eyes begged for something—maybe an explanation, maybe escape.
Tyris walked to her slowly. He didn't shout. He didn't raise his voice.
Instead, he extended his hand, calm as still water.
"You need to come here," he said. "This moment... is something you'll face eventually. Let's not waste the lesson."
She hesitated. Her lips parted slightly, trying to speak, but no words came.
He didn't wait.
With one swift motion, he took her hand—not harshly, but firmly—and placed the dagger into her trembling fingers. She looked down at it in disbelief, the weight of it like a stone.
"You've never held something like this, have you?" Tyris asked quietly.
Maria shook her head. Her throat tightened, her eyes watering. "I—I can't..."
"You will," he said. "Or your tribe won't survive what's coming."
He led her to Roy's side. The man still lay unconscious, breathing heavily. The firelight flickered across his pale face. There was no kindness left in his features—only the memory of arrogance and threats.
"Look at him," Tyris said. "This is the man who tried to use you. Who smiled in front of your father while planning to erase your bloodline. You hesitated to kill him... and that almost got you all destroyed."
Maria's legs gave a small shake. Her grip on the dagger faltered. "I don't want to kill him…"
Tyris turned her hand upward and pressed the hilt into her palm.
"Then don't think of it as killing," he whispered. "Think of it as ending a mistake."
And then—
He moved her arm with his, guiding the swing.
One clean stroke.
CHOP.
A sound of tearing flesh. A spray of warm blood.
"Aaaaaaaah—!"
Roy's eyes flew open, his scream piercing the trees as his right arm fell to the ground, cleanly severed from his shoulder.
The dagger clattered to the dirt, still slick with crimson. Maria's eyes went wide, her whole body frozen in shock.
She stared at the severed limb.
She stared at her hands.
She couldn't breathe.
She had never killed—not even a chicken.
Now she had cut a man's arm from his body.
Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
Tyris leaned in, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Hey. Look at me."
She didn't.
He shook her slightly. "Maria. You awake?"
Still nothing.
Meanwhile, Roy writhed on the ground, clutching at his stump. Blood poured freely, soaking his side. He bit down hard, trying to muffle his screams.
His eyes shot to Maria. His voice was strained, desperate.
"Maria… help me. If you want your family and tribe spared… help me now. I'll forget this. I swear. Just get me to a mage—my arm—it can still be—"
He winced, unable to finish his sentence.
Maria's ears rang with his voice. With the sound of his pain. With the echo of the blade cutting through flesh.
She stepped backward, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Tyris turned toward Roy, his face dark with contempt.
THUD.
He drove his boot into Roy's gut, silencing him.
"Shut your mouth, you little worm," Tyris snarled. "You think this is about forgiveness? You threatened her family. Her father. Her people. And now you beg like a dog in the dirt?"
He turned to Maria again. "Look at him. Does this man deserve mercy?"
Maria couldn't speak.
Tyris narrowed his eyes. "You're a princess, aren't you? Then why are you trembling like a peasant child who saw her first raindrop? It's just blood."
Her lip quivered.
"I—It's not just blood... I—"
"Stop," Tyris interrupted, raising a hand. "No more excuses."
He took a deep breath, and then—
He whistled.
It was sharp and low. A single note.
Then came the rustle of paws.
Dozens of them.
The trees shivered. From every direction, they came—wolves, gray and silver and white, silent and swift.
More than fifty of them.
Each one with glowing eyes, their movements disciplined, their snarls barely restrained. They formed a wide circle around Tyris, Maria, and the broken man on the ground.
Freya, the white wolf, stepped forward—elegant, deadly, powerful. She looked at Maria not with hatred, but pity.
Maria gasped. The presence of so many wolves at once sent her mind spinning.
She turned to Tyris.
"H–How?"
"In six months," Tyris said softly, "I've conquered more of this land than your tribe has in decades. Do you think that was an accident?"
He reached for Maria's arm and pulled her up gently, lifting her onto Freya's back.
She didn't resist.
She was too numb.
He turned to two of the larger wolves and pointed at Roy. "Drag him. I want him alive, just long enough for his people to see what happens when they try to chain the Moon's blood."
The wolves moved swiftly, gripping Roy's cloak in their jaws. The man groaned in agony, but there was no sympathy left for him.
Tyris climbed behind Maria on Freya's back, one hand around her waist.
He looked toward the horizon—toward the direction of her tribe.
His voice was like thunder.
"Today," he announced to the wolves, "we march. We go not for blood, but For New Future."
A howl answered him.(Then another… And another.)
Roy's scream tore through the forest like a wounded animal. His body, bloodied and limp, was dragged mercilessly by two wolves. One on each side, their sharp teeth clenched around his shredded tunic, pulling him over rocks and roots. His severed arm was clenched tightly in the jaws of a third wolf, its tongue lazily licking the blood that dripped from the lifeless limb as it trotted beside them like a victorious soldier returning from war.
Each bump against the earth made Roy groan in agony. His consciousness flickered in and out, and yet the burning pain of his missing arm kept dragging him back to the world he wished he could escape.
Up ahead, Tyris rode the great white wolf, Freya, with Maria seated in front of him. His grip was firm around her wrist, almost possessive. He hadn't let go since they left Roy's broken body behind the first time. She sat stiffly, her back against his chest, the scent of blood thick in the air around her.
The woods were alive with growls and padded steps—wolves, dozens of them, maybe more than fifty, surged forward behind them. A haunting army, their amber eyes glowing in the dark, their breath steaming in the night chill. The sound of paw pads hitting the earth formed a rhythm of dread, a march of untamed beasts following their lord.
Maria turned her head slightly to look back, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Behind them, the trail was filled with movement—wolves swarming like shadows, and at the center of it, Roy's body being dragged through the dirt. His screams had grown hoarse, turning into soft, broken moans.
She felt sick.
Her throat tightened.
Tyris leaned down toward her ear, his voice calm but laced with purpose.
"We are about to reach now."
His words pulled her gaze forward.
And there it was.
Light.
Faint, flickering firelight—her tribe.
From between the trees, the valley opened up into the tribal grounds. The familiar outline of the entrance gate, stone walls, the tall totems that marked their ancestral ground. Watchmen's fires danced like distant stars, warning of approaching strangers.
Maria stared, frozen. She hadn't seen her home since the night she was taken.
The warmth of those fires didn't feel like safety anymore.
It felt like a battlefield.
Within minutes, they crossed the treeline and stepped out of the forest. The wolves poured out beside them like a river of death. Roy's limp body, streaked with blood and dirt, was dragged just behind them. The wolf carrying his severed arm followed closely, blood dripping from its jaws onto the path.
The sentries on the tribal walls saw them first. Yells echoed through the wind.
"Alert the Chieftain!"
"Wolves! Wolves are coming!"
"Is that—Maria?!"
Tyris brought Freya to a stop just before the entrance.
Torches flared. Warriors scrambled into formation. Spears were raised toward the night sky.
But no arrows flew.
No blades were thrown.
Because the sight was too strange.
Too haunting.
The white wolf. The blood-covered girl. The army of beasts.
Tyris turned to Maria.
He didn't ask. He ordered.
And with a single tug, he dropped her from Freya's back.
She landed on her knees, eyes wide. The earth was cold beneath her hands.
Before she could stand, Tyris made a sharp whistle. Two wolves responded immediately—dragging Roy's arm forward. The third wolf released it, and it rolled unceremoniously across the dirt, stopping inches away from Maria's feet.
She flinched and pulled back.
Tyris dismounted slowly, his steps silent but full of power. He picked up the arm by the wrist and turned it in his hands—examining it like a hunter inspecting a prize.
Then he crouched before Maria.
"Now," he said softly, "you go to your father."
She looked up at him, terrified and unsure.
"Tell him I, the Lord of Wolves, have come to claim your tribe."
He pressed the bloody arm into her hands.
She stared at it in horror, but didn't let it fall.
Tyris's eyes narrowed, his voice still calm but filled with weight.
"Tell him I will remove the threat of Ragnar. That I do not have patience to waste. If your father does not bend… he will be broken."
Maria's lips parted, her breath shaky.
He leaned in closer.
"And tell Ragnar," he said, voice now sharp and cold, "that if he wants his son to stay alive, he should return to wherever he crawled from."
He stood tall and looked toward the torches now gathering at the gates.
Warriors stared at them, eyes filled with confusion and dread.
Maria, with shaking arms, cradled Roy's severed limb. Blood soaked into her dress. Her legs refused to move, but her pride burned behind her eyes.
Tyris gave her a final look.
"Now go," he said.
.